Harry Potter and ze Vampire Eenvasion
by milapede
Summary: Following the end of his marriage to Ginny, Harry starts dating again and unexpectedly comes into contact with Draco Malfoy, whom he hasn't heard from in years. In the meanwhile, sexy French vampires (not of the sparkling variety) start invading England.
1. Chapter 1

The disintegration of Harry's and Ginny's four year marriage came as a shock to everyone who knew them, Harry and Ginny included. On the outside, their marriage was something to be aspired to: the wives and husbands of the other aurors in Harry's department would ask their significant others why they couldn't be more like Harry and leave work at six o' clock sharp each evening to be with them, instead of heading out to the pub or staying late. And Ginny seemed happy with her life, too - she'd left professional Quidditch to have her babies, but she still got out of the house regularly, had dinner at least once a week with the other Weasleys, talked about coaching Quidditch at Hogwarts once the children grew older... Just a week before Ginny announced the split the Potters had been voted 'Most Likely to Live Happily Ever After' at a Gryffindor reunion party at Dean Thomas' place, and from the way Harry had had his arm around Ginny's waist all night as she laughed and reminisced and sipped cocktails everyone had thought they seemed very happy together. And they had been very happy together. All the way till the end.

In hindsight, Ginny wondered how she could have missed the signs. The first and most glaringly obvious sign being the end of their sex life shortly after she started to show with their youngest, Lily Luna. At first she tried to pass it off as normal - maybe Harry didn't want to risk hurting the baby - but then Lily was born, and a whole month passed without Harry once reaching for her, and then Ginny tried to initiate and Harry responded, but nothing for another month... Ginny nearly went crazy trying to figure it out. Harry couldn't be sleeping with someone else - how could he, when he was home by six each day? Still, she sniffed his shirts and turned out his pockets to make sure. No traces of foreign perfume mingling with his cologne. No lipstick marks. Nothing suspicious falling out of his pockets. Her next guess was that some form of post-war traumatic disorder was belatedly kicking in, stealing his libido, but Harry seemed so normal in all other aspects of his life...

The day the Potters' marriage ended, which began as a lazy Sunday afternoon just like any other, hit Ginny like a slap in the face. She walked into their room to pick up a change of clothes for Lily. Harry was sitting on their bed, his trousers off, wanking furiously. Ginny's first instinct was to back out of the room very quickly, but then it struck her that it had been a year - a whole fucking year without fucking - since Harry had shown any signs of having a sex drive, and so she marched back into the room and that was when she realized the magazines Harry was struggling to put away even before attempting to pull his pants back on were magazines of _men. _And then Ginny lost it.

_ˆ_He didn't understand why she wanted him out of the house - "I've never cheated on you Ginny, I swear on James' life" or why she was so livid and so crushed - "Our marriage hasn't been a lie, Ginny, I love you more than anything", and he pleaded with her to let him stay - "Don't take the children away from me" - but he packed his bags and left anyway. It was impossible to tell who was sobbing harder.

* * *

Three months later, the doorbell of Harry's new London flat rings brightly. Following Harry's failure to reply to the first ring, it rings again, this time accompanied by vigorous knocking.

"Open up, Harry! I know you're in there!"

The door finally opens. "Ginny?" Harry's surprise shows on his face. "You read my letters?"

Ginny smiles a little. "I did. I read all of them the moment I got them, but it took a while for me to calm down and come and see you."

Harry takes in the sight of her - the way her impossibly red hair cascades over her shoulders, still slightly wet from the afternoon rain, the way the first lines have already crept onto her face without him realizing. He wants to hug her, but he thinks better of it. "Come in," he says instead.

Harry puts the kettle on and joins Ginny at the kitchen table. He picks up an apple and tries unsuccessfully to spin it on the table top.

"How are the kids?" he asks as the apple falls on its side for the third time with a defeated little thump.

"They miss you a lot. James and Albus have asked about you every day for three months. When you left James wouldn't eat until I told him why."

"You told them?" Harry asks.

"I said you had to go to France for work," Ginny says miserably.

"I did go to France for work," Harry acknowledges. "It's not a lie."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have gone if we hadn't split up."

"Hard to say. Things are afoot in France. People disappearing but no bodies showing up... I was sent to investigate because one of our Ministry people disappeared in Normandy, right under her family's noses. I might have to go back, actually - we think the recent Brighton disappearances are related to what's been happening in France."

"Harry." Harry falls silent, and then Ginny starts again, "I'm sorry for keeping you from the kids. It was really, really selfish of me. I want you to be in their lives again."

"What will we tell them?"

Ginny's face crumples. "That we're not in love with each other anymore."

"I love you, Ginny," Harry says quietly.

"But it's not the same is it?"

* * *

Another month, and all wounds seem to have healed. All of Ginny's wounds, that is. The children (apart from baby Lily, whose ignorance is bliss) are still sore about only getting to see their father on weekends, and since James has decided Harry and Ginny are equally to blame for ruining his life, both are getting the silent treatment from him. Even their attempt at winning him over by buying him a toy broom when it's not his birthday do little to placate him, although he does spend a lot of time with his broom, zipping up and down the garden and flying dangerously high especially when he knows his parents are watching.

It's on one of these weekends when Harry and Ginny are lying in the grass, watching their four year old attempt gravity defying stunts on his toy broomstick, that a weird idea takes hold of Ginny and refuses to let go.

"Harry," Ginny begins suddenly. "Have you ever fancied another man?"

"Erm, I dunno..."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Ginny demands.

"I mean it's hard to talk about it..."

Ginny rolls her eyes. "I've had three of your babies and you've practically seen my insides while they were being pulled out of me. Now spill," she says authoritatively, and suddenly Harry has a vision of her turning into her mother.

"I mean yeah, I've been attracted to other men. It's usually just a passing crush, though, I've never felt anything serious."

"Do you want to meet someone?"

"Maybe," says Harry, sensing where the conversation is going and not liking it.

"I think you should meet someone."

"Maybe," says Harry.

"I'm going clubbing in Soho this Friday night with a couple of Harpies and we were thinking of checking out this new club, Pot of Gold-" Harry groans before she can finish - "you should come."

"Wouldn't I be a better parent if I stayed and looked after the kids?" Harry protests weakly.

"Nope," says Ginny, "Mum's already agreed to take them. She's really looking forward to Friday, actually. Do you really want to get into her bad books by taking the kids away from her?"

Harry groans again.

* * *

Clubbing is every bit the nightmare Harry suspected it would be. He hates the music, hates its jagged, metallic sound and the insistent pulse he can feel all the way in his ribcage. Most of all, he hates how old it makes him feel. He recognizes nothing except what seems to be a remix of a Weird Sisters track Ron used to play over and over again in the dorms, but the music has been processed (tortured, Harry thinks) to the point that it, like its counterparts, is alien and no longer of Harry's time.

He bobs awkwardly, one point in a circle formed by him, Ginny and her two Harpie friends. All three women seem more at home than he is in a club populated almost exclusively by gay men, and they dance exuberantly while Harry clutches his beer like it's a lifeline and tries not to make eye contact with anyone.

Unfortunately he gets recognized anyway.

"FUCK ME MERLIN ARE YOU HARRY POTTER?" A man - no, a boy, really - stops in his tracks and leans uncomfortably close to Harry's face, trying to discern if what he sees on Harry's forehead is what it is. He's wearing a mesh shirt and nothing underneath, except a neon dragon tattoo that flies about his chest and changes colour every few seconds. His breath smells like alcohol and cranberry juice mixed in careless proportions.

"Not so loudly, please," Harry says, but the boy only goes "WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU" very loudly, and boldly (rudely, Harry thinks) sweeps Harry's hair off his forehead and confirms his suspicions.

The next thing Harry knows his circle of four has expanded to a much larger circle of ten as the boy's friends and dance partners are hailed over, and his scar is marveled at by each newcomer in turn. Harry doesn't catch most of the names shouted at him over the deafening music and doesn't remember the ones he manages to hear, but the boy with the neon dragon tattoo is called Enoch, and he's even younger than Harry thought.

"SEVENTEEN?" Harry asks hoarsely, while Enoch wraps his arms around Harry's waist and starts to dance.

"I'M OF AGE," Enoch shouts back cheerfully. "HOW OLD ARE YOU?"

"Too old for this," says Harry and looks pleadingly in Ginny's direction to ask if they can go home yet.

But Ginny seems to be having too wild a time to want to go home. One of the men in the group has hoisted her onto his shoulders and she's swinging her feet and giggling like she's sixteen again.

Harry does end up taking someone home at the end of the night- Ginny. When she can barely stand he puts his arm around her gently but firmly, ignoring her protests that the night is still young, steers her out of the club and apparates them home. He catches her when she staggers and holds her hair back while she throws up from the nausea of apparating while drunk. Then, when he's cleaned her up and tucked her into bed, he apparates back to his flat and goes to sleep alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday morning 10am. Harry's just settled down to breakfast with the _Daily Prophet _when his fireplace suddenly bursts into life and Dawlish's enlarged head appears in the flames, causing Harry to nearly choke on his toast.

"Morning to you too, John," Harry says, putting down his toast and crouching by the fire so he and Dawlish are eye to eye.

Dawlish cuts to the chase. "Harry there's been another disappearance. I just heard from Law Enforcement- they're not sure how seriously to take it since it's been less than forty eight hours since the person was last seen, but I think it might be worth investigating now while the trail's at least lukewarm."

Harry frowns. "Who reported them missing?"

"The parents. According to them their son left Friday night to stay with a friend for the weekend, said he'd be home for dinner on Sunday. But he wasn't home by Sunday night so they Flooed the friend to see what had happened and the friend admitted he never stayed over at all. Nothing out of the ordinary for a teenager, right? But the parents press for information, and it turns out the plan all along was for him to spend Friday night in London and return early - by Saturday night. Now why would he lie to his friend?"

"Why London? Where in London did he stay on Friday night?"

"The friend doesn't know. He doesn't know anything about the missing boy's plans in London. We don't have very much to go on for now, but I'm thinking we should get in contact with as many of his other friends as we can and see if they know anything about it."

"Definitely," Harry agrees, getting to his feet. "Meet you at the office in half an hour?"

"I'll see you there. The parents will be joining us too." Dawlish disappears with a pop.

At the Auror Office, Harry is confronted by a visibly distraught woman and her husband. They clutch at each other for comfort and stare about them with terror, like it's the Auror Office and not London that's taken their son away.

"This is Mr and Mrs Newton, Harry," says Dawlish, appearing out of nowhere, and Mrs Newton begins to wail loudly.

"Did I do something?" Harry asks, alarmed.

"You didn't," says Mrs Newton through violent sobs, "It's just that if you of all people have to be pulled into the case then something very bad must have happened to my son. But it is very nice to meet you, Mr Potter." She tries to smile through her tears.

"Likewise, Mrs Newton," Harry says awkwardly, "And we don't know something bad's happened for sure. I went missing occasionally when I was a teenager. We just want to be extra careful and make sure this isn't related to-"

"Now," Dawlish cuts in, brandishing a photograph at the Newtons, "This is your son, you say? We shall arrange with the _Prophet_ to have the picture printed so anyone with information can let us know."

Harry glances at the picture and does a double take. The boy from the club is grinning toothily at him in two dimensions. The boy with the flying neon dragon tattoo. Seventeen year old Enoch.

"I know where he was in London," Harry says. Dawlish and the Newtons stare at him. "At least I know where he was till one am on Saturday morning. I saw him at Pot of Gold. He was with friends-"

Dawlish interrupts. "Pot of Gold?"

Harry flushes, but gets on with the explanation. "It's a gay wizarding club in Soho. I went with Ginny and her friends," he adds hastily when Dawlish raises an eyebrow.

"What was my son doing at a gay wizarding club in Soho?" demands Mr Newton, outraged. It's the first time Harry has heard him speak, and the way the man practically purples with rage reminds him unpleasantly of his uncle Vernon. "Are you sure it was him you saw, Mr Potter?" Mr Newton continues angrily. "My son is only fifteen and has never, I repeat never, expressed interest in men."

"Fifteen you say?" Harry remarks, feeling rather faint. "He said he was seventeen. Is his name Enoch, Mr Newton? Does he have a neon rainbow dragon tattoo on his chest?"

"It's not a bloody rainbow tattoo," splutters Mr Newton, "It just changes colours."

"Sounds like a rainbow tattoo to me," puts in Dawlish unhelpfully. "Who were his friends, Harry?"

Harry shakes his head. "I don't know, he was the only one I spoke to, but Ginny and her friends might remember."

They try Flooing Ginny and her Harpie friends. Ginny only remembers a Felix and a Jeremy, neither of whom Mr and Mrs Newton have heard of. Harry suggests checking the Hogwarts records but Ginny shakes her head. "Those two seemed too old for Hogwarts. Felix had me on his shoulders, for Merlin's sake. There were a couple of boys who seemed about Enoch's age, but I didn't catch their names. You could extract my memories if you want a picture."

Next they pay a visit to the Pot of Gold management, but this proves to be of little help. The bartenders seem to remember Enoch and his friends vaguely but claim they didn't draw much attention to themselves throughout the night. The bouncers _might_ have seen the group leave together, but who knows where to. It's clear they've hit a wall.

"I'm very sorry," Dawlish says to Mr and Mrs Newton, who seem to have transitioned from weeping and apoplectic rage to numb shock. They no longer clutch at each other but stand mutely on the pavement outside the Pot of Gold as traffic roars by. Dawlish delivers the standard we'll-get-back-to-you-if-we-find-any-leads address which elicits no response, then everyone shakes hands and parts ways. Dawlish watches the Newtons go, then he turns to Harry, looking completely drained.

"Pub?"

* * *

As with the missing people before him, no part of Enoch ever shows up. Harry doesn't understand it. There have been forty (reported) cases of complete and utter vanishing in France in just over three months, a frightening statistic considering only missing wizards were included in the tally, and since the first notable disappearance in England about a fortnight ago there have been four in England. Four colourful pins on Harry's map of England, and red is for fifteen year old Enoch. How could so many different kidnappers - because there's no way one person has kidnapped forty four people in three months all over two countries - share the same modus operandi? Are they all part of the same gang? And what do they want with their victims? Do they kill them? And then what? Eat them?

* * *

Another weekend afternoon, and Harry is sprawled on the grass around his old house, watching Ginny chase Albus and James around the garden. For once, she's not trying to get them to bathe; they're just playing tag. When the boys are caught and tickled, Ginny comes over and sits with Harry, panting slightly.

"I'm getting old," she complains, rubbing her knees like they ache.

"Foot massage?" Harry offers, and Ginny plops her feet into Harry's lap gratefully.

"How did you like clubbing last week?" she asks, laying back in the grass while Harry kneads the muscles in her feet. Her red hair spills everywhere like a forest fire. "Oh yeah, has the boy -Enoch? is that his name?- have you found him?"

"We haven't and I never want to go clubbing again," Harry says.

Ginny laughs. "We're probably too old for that anyway. Clubbing is not how you meet people when you're thirty, or actually, when you're out of your teens. Laura - oh you know her, Harry, she went clubbing with us - she found this new dating service that sounds quite promising."

Alarm bells start ringing in Harry's head, warning him to smoothly change the topic before it's too late, but Ginny's too quick for him.

"We should give it a go," she says enthusiastically. "Oh come on, I don't want to do it alone."

Harry buries his face despairingly in Ginny's feet. "Okay, suppose I tried it out," he tries to argue, "How many people do you think would ask me out just because I'm Harry Potter?"

"Ah," Ginny says, grinning like she's in possession of a wonderful secret, "Here's the beauty of it. You go under a pseudonym, like Gryffindor's Heir or The Seeker or something. There's complete anonymity, no name, no picture. Come on, Harry, be a sport."

Once again, Harry becomes an unwilling participant in Ginny's matchmaking schemes. Ginny is Foxy Lady and Harry is forced into the role of The Seeker IV, because The Seeker I through III are already taken and he won't let Ginny name him Emerald Eyes. Next, they have to write profiles about themselves and submit them. Everything Ginny suggests Harry write about himself makes him cringe, and everything he wants to say about himself (which is that he likes Quidditch and his family and wouldn't mind going for a drink sometime) she vetoes as being too prosaic, so in the end he looks away while she writes his profile for him. "What now?" he asks when she seals the profiles she's written for them in separate envelopes. "We mail these out, and we wait," Ginny says, rubbing her hands.

* * *

"CHRISTMAS!" is the first thing Ginny shouts at Harry when he apparates to see his children the following weekend. Harry's caught completely off guard and has no idea what she's talking about until she throws him a large package and waves another at his face. _To Mr H. Potter from The Weekly Cupid_ reads the lavender writing on the front. "Oh," says Harry, remembering.

"_Oh,_" Ginny mimics. "You could at least try to feign enthusiasm. I waited for you to get here so we could open ours together."

"Well shall we?" Harry asks, but Ginny's already tearing open her package.

The package is mostly so large because there's a directory as big as an encyclopedia inside. "It's self-updating," explains Ginny, "every time someone new joins the directory updates itself. And you can talk to it and ask it to help you find your type."

Harry thinks what a waste it is for such an impressive piece of magic to go into a book like this. He's never met a talking book before, only a biting book in Hagrid's class years and years ago. And he's definitely never met a self-searching book before - he'd have found out about the Philosopher's Stone and the Basilisk much, much sooner if all books had that property. Nevertheless he puts the directory aside and examines the rest of the package. There are three envelopes, each with a different name on the cover.

"Nope," Harry says, putting aside the envelope from Platform Sixty Nine and Three Quarters immediately.

"Oh give it here," Ginny says, reaching over and tearing the envelope open, but it doesn't take very long before she folds the letter and stuffs it back into the envelope, blushing crimson. "I must have forgotten to put your age on your profile," she says, seeming flustered, "He thought you were still at Hogwarts."

"The name Seeker III- or was it IV- probably contributed to that impression," Harry remarks, turning his attention to the next envelope. This next person seems promising. He writes that he loves the outdoors, isn't very good at Quidditch but he enjoys flying. He proposes a day trip to Cornwall, 'just to fly all day over the cliffs and the sea.' "

"That sounds lovely," says Ginny, reading over Harry's neck.

"Mmm, it looks like he's just visiting from Germany, though. Nah, it isn't worth it." Harry puts the letter aside.

The last letter is from Will O' the Whip, who'd like to spank Harry's behind till it's red.

"No thanks," Harry says politely, and tosses the letter aside.

"Oh Harry don't give up," Ginny pleads, "there's still a whole encyclopedia full of people."

"The only people I'd like to see are my children," Harry says, and cringes when he realizes how wrong that sounds.

* * *

Harry'll never admit this to Ginny or to anyone else, but late on Saturday night, when it's only minutes before morning, he takes the directory out and sets it on his bed. "Show me…" he's hesitant at first; it makes him feel stupid, talking to a book. But the book flaps its pages encouragingly, and Harry clears his throat and tries: "Show me a guy who…" No. Too stupid. He closes his eyes, thinking that this isn't working and he should just go to bed. But when he opens his eyes the book is still there, its pages open almost expectantly, and Harry wonders how he got so lonely that he's come to assign moods to an inanimate object. He tries to speak to the book again: "Show me a guy who… just wants to meet someone.

"For company.

"Maybe because he's a bit lonely.

"Because he's middle aged, maybe.

"...

"He's not a sex fiend. Or he can be, that's good at a certain stage I guess, but that's not all he's looking for.

"He likes Quidditch and his family.

Did you get that, book?"

The book is unresponsive. Harry thinks maybe he did it wrong. But then the pages begin to flap to and fro in a haphazard fashion, like there's a wind blowing in Harry's bedroom, and Harry watches, fascinated, wondering if he's broken the book, but it does come to rest eventually. The profile reads

_The Silver Seeker._

_Male, 34_

_I have two children from a previous marriage. Write to me if you're interested in good conversation, a game of Quidditch, or a quiet drink. Annoying personalities will receive no replies._

That's it. That's all The Silver Seeker has to say for himself. "How did you find him from what I said?" Harry asks the book. The book ruffles its pages like it's proud of itself.

"That was very impressive," Harry says, and takes out his quill.


End file.
